I sit on the uncomfortable plastic chair they hastily shunted me in the direction of as soon as it started happening. I can't see what's going on in the room, but the old guy with the kindly face whom I see most times when I'm here is still in there doing something. I'd stand and look through the window in the door, but there's no real point. I wouldn't be able to see anything, anyway, and they'd probably just push me away again, saying I was getting in the way.

My heart is thumping and my hands are shaking. It's the closest I've ever got to reaching him. I could tell that all those things I said, he heard. He didn't respond or say anything — he couldn't — but he heard. That I'm sure of. Otherwise why would that have happened?

I'm not an expert or anything on these things. All the others are, though. I just get under their feet when they're trying to work. They put up with me but I'm sure they resent me under their cheery, understanding exterior. They don't know how it came to this, of course, but I imagine they'd treat me differently if they knew.

The old guy is coming out. He's got a grim look on his face. He sits down next to me and forces a smile, but I can tell that there's no sincerity behind it.

"Evie," he says, his voice cracking a little. He clears his throat. "Evie."

"Yes?" I say quietly, almost a whisper.

"I understand your reasons for wanting to come here, but–"

He doesn't. He really doesn't. They all have this big romantic idea of what I'm doing here when in fact all I want to do is atone for my sin, turn back the clock, make everything all right again. But I can't.

"Hey," he breaks off, seeing my eyes filling with tears. "Look. You're tired. Why don't you come with me and get a coffee and we can talk, hm?"

I sniff but don't trust myself to speak right now. I just nod. He stands and offers me his hand, helping me up. I don't need the help but the gesture is a nice one, like old-fashioned chivalry, dead to most people nowadays. He leads me through a maze of corridors to the cafeteria, sits me down at a secluded table in the corner of the room and heads over to get the coffees. He returns a few moments later with two large mugs and a Belgian bun.

"You looked like you could do with eating something nice," he says. "Go on. On me."

I take a bite. After months of bland cup noodles and dry pasta, it's delicious — so sweet and moist. I devour it in a matter of seconds. He looks at me, an eyebrow raised.

"Someone was hungry," he says. I laugh weakly and he smiles.

"You wanted to say something," I say eventually after a silence slightly too long to be comfortable. "You were going to say I should stop coming, weren't you?"

"Well, not in so many words," he said. "In fact, no, not at all. Like I say, I know why you keep coming here — you think you can reach him. And it's quite possible that you can — today's episode occurred during your visit, after all."

"It could be a coincidence," I say, my faithful pessimism gene kicking in.

"It could be," he says. "But I think you could be on to something. However–"

Here it comes.

"However," he says again, "I'm worried about you. Since we've started seeing you, you've lost a lot of weight, you look very pale, your eyes are dark and you look exhausted. You're here most days. You need to take some time for yourself, relax, get your mind together. The way things have been going, a couple of days off from all this will do you good, and you can come back and try again afterwards."

He has a point, I suppose. I do feel tired. I wake up every morning feeling like I haven't slept, though I know I have because the time has passed in a heartbeat. Every day the same — wake up, get up, come here, go home, cry, sleep. My life. My parents would be so proud, particularly due to the fact that my not working is burning through my inheritance money at a rate of knots.

I feel a little sad as I picture the face my mother always gave me when I'd been naughty. Never angry, just disappointed — but it hurt to see that face. I hate disappointing her, and I hate that wherever she is right now, I must be disappointing her terribly.

I take a sip of my coffee and look at the old man.

"Perhaps you're right," I say. "I need a rest. To take a break. Life… hasn't exactly been easy since 'it' happened."

He nods.

"I understand," he says. "When this sort of thing happens — we see it a lot, too much for my liking — it can feel like the end of the world, I know. But I've seen your type before. You're a fighter, you want to keep going, pushing onward. And you can do it. But you shouldn't sacrifice yourself in the process. What good's rebuilding a world if you can't enjoy it yourself?"

He's right. I should take some time, get myself together and figure out how I'm going to cope. Rationally — pessimistically? — speaking, I might never reach him, so I'll need to figure out what I'm going to do if that does happen.

But on the other hand, I might actually reach him one day, and soon. And I'll need to be ready for that, because it might not be the joyful reunion that the one tiny little optimistic piece of my mind that still survives is hoping for.

I'd had to sit down. The chairs in the living room were comfortable, if a little dusty, but comfort wasn't the thing on my mind right now. The photograph album and the fact it was clearly me in the pictures was the fact that was bothering me, but every time I thought I caught a mental glimpse of the memory that explained all this, it seemed to dart out of sight, like someone was deliberately taunting me, baiting me, wanting me to perform for their amusement.

I wasn't having any of it. I'd get to the bottom of things in time, if I could only find a few more clues. But I felt I needed a few moments to rest my weary legs and let everything I'd learned so far sink in. I closed my eyes for a moment and sat in my own self-imposed darkness.

Adam, came a now-familiar female voice. Adam, can you hear me?

"Yes," I said out loud, knowing full well that I was talking to thin air.

Adam, came the voice again. I don't know if you can hear me, but I need you to listen. I need you to hear me.

"I can hear you," I said out loud, aware that my replies wouldn't be heard but unable to stop myself.

I know that the reason for all this is me, came the voice. And I'm sorry. If I could have done things differently before all this, perhaps I could have saved you, saved everything. But I know it's too late for that now. It's too late. But I won't give up.

This was the most I'd ever heard the voice say. I kept my eyes closed and remained perfectly still, as if any slight movement on my part might scare whoever was speaking away forever.

I won't give up, the voice said again. I won't. I will spend my life making this right if that's what it takes. I need you. You need me. And I'm sorry for what I did. I know it was wrong. I knew it was wrong at the time. I have no excuses, and we've both seen the consequences. I'm just here to say that I'll make it right. I'll do everything I can to make it right. I promise. I promise. I love you.

A now-familiar feeling started to stir in my mind. I tried to force it away, but I felt like I was rooted to the spot, trapped in the chair, my eyes glued shut. I couldn't move, and I could feel it building like a fire within me. So much anger, rage — and fear?

"Love," I said, unable to control the words coming out of my mouth. "Love. You dare speak to me of love? There is no love, only pain. There is no 'right', only fury. There are no promises, save that of vengeance."

I roared. The sound frightened me, but it was already clear to me that I was no longer in control of my body. This time, though, instead of passing out or feeling the strange dreamlike detachment I had before, I was all too aware of what I was doing. My eyes opened, and through my red-tinted vision I saw myself pick up the photograph album and tear it in half. It fell to the floor and burst into flames.

I looked up at the mirror but before I could comprehend my own monstrous reflection, it shattered into a million tiny fragments, showering the carpet with a crystal rain.

I roared again, and the earth shook, along with the house. Looking out from behind my eyes as a passive observer, I saw myself punch a wall and it collapse. I saw myself destroying this house, this haven of calm, perhaps the only safe place left in this desolate world.

And then, suddenly, nothing. Blackness. The rage and fury subsided quickly, and I was left in a lightless limbo once again.

There were whispering voices. I couldn't hear what they were saying. I tried to walk towards them but they never seemed to get any closer, and I couldn't feel my body. There was another noise, too, but I couldn't figure out what it was.

I sat in silence, trying in vain to hear what the whispering voices had to say, but they didn't get any closer. The whispering sounded urgent, important, but I still couldn't figure out any words.

Then another sound — footsteps? I couldn't be sure.

Adam, said a different voice — a man, this time. You gave us quite a scare.

A brilliant white light flashed in my eyes, and I found myself sitting on the floor in a field of dry, dead grass, nothing to see in any direction but endless wasteland. Had the house been a figment of my own imagination, a hallucinogenic symptom of fatigue?

It had certainly seemed real at the time, and my aching body and throbbing head certainly testified to the fact that something had happened, but there was no sign of the house at all. All the previous times I'd felt the strange, destructive force unleash itself from within me, I'd emerged from the nightmare to find ruins, chaos, destruction. This time, though, there was just nothing, and now I had no idea where I was.

I got to my feet and started walking. Eventually, I figured, I'd come to some sort of landmark and be able to get myself back on track. At least, that's what the optimistic side of me wanted to think — but the influence of that part of me was fading fast, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could go on. This was beginning to feel like a fruitless quest, and I began to wonder if my life really mattered.

Right now, it didn't matter to me. But I felt it mattered to someone else, and that I shouldn't give up — not yet, anyway.

I trudged on silently as the sun set over the horizon. The beautiful shades of pink and gold in the sky as the light faded did little to lighten my mood.

The phone rings. The power may be out, but at least while I've still got a bit of battery life I have some contact with the outside world while I'm in my self-imposed exile.

I glance at the screen. Bless her. She's phoned me every day this week so far. I've told her several times that I'm fine — even though I'm not really sure myself if I am — but still she worries. At least someone's looking out for me.

I let it ring a few times before I answer. I don't want her to think that I've been sitting here all alone waiting for someone to reach out to me, even if that is the case.

"Evie," comes the excitable, breathy voice on the other end of the phone. "You all right?"

"Yes," I say. "Fine."

"You took a while to answer. I wondered if you were all right."

"I'm fine. Really. Don't worry."

"I just miss you, Evie. I wish you hadn't had to go away. I wish all this hadn't happened."

She says this every day. I think it, too, but I gave up giving voice to those thoughts some time ago, because they don't help anything.

"It did. It happened. And there's no way to turn back from it now. It's not your fault. It's my fault, you know that. You don't have to tiptoe around it. I know it was my fault."

"I know, but–"

I cut her off in mid-sentence.

"Did you want something?"

"No, not really," she says, sounding a little put out. "I just wanted to see how you were."

I take a breath and close my eyes for a moment. I sniff and wipe away some of the tears that are still dampening my cheeks.

"I'm sorry," I say after a moment. "It's just… It's just all been getting to me a bit, recently. I… I miss him."

There's a pause at the other end. She never knows quite what to say when I bring him up directly.

"I know," she says after a brief silence. "We all do. So why don't you go see him?"

I flop backwards dejectedly on the bed, the phone still pressed to my ear.

"I've tried to reach him," I say. "I've tried. Over and over. But I just can't. And just trying is exhausting. I don't know how much longer I can go on like this."

She pauses again.

"Don't give up," she says weakly. "Please don't give up."

The weakness and fragility in her voice makes me melt inside, and I feel the tears springing to my eyes again. While she's looking out for me, I can't give up.

"I won't," I say. "I won't give up. It's just difficult."

"I know," she says. "I wish I could help you more."

"You do help," I say. "You do."

My battery is starting to die and there's still no sign of the power coming back, so I make my excuses and end the call. There's nothing else to say.

She's right, of course. I shouldn't give up. Giving up is the worst thing to do. Amid all this chaos and devastation that "it" wrought, the one thing still standing is… me. I'm still here. I'm still alive. And that's something. I intend to keep it that way.

I decide to go out to clear my head. It's a bright, sunny day, but the cheerful weather does little to lighten my mood. It's as if black clouds have gathered around my soul to drain the colour from the world, making it a joyless place.

The street is almost silent as I walk down it. The dilapidated buildings tower over me on either side, oppressive, looming. I walk the familiar path through the streets and pick my way through the discarded rubbish bags and detritus that clutter the pavements. I've been this way many times, but the outcome has always been the same. I don't know if anything will be different this time, but I feel I should keep trying. Eventually, I will reach him. Eventually things will be resolved. And while it's clear to me that things have gone too far for them to ever be the same again, perhaps at least some of the damage can be repaired.

It's a hopeful thought, but the black clouds around my heart prevent me from dwelling on the possibilities too much. I've always been one for overthinking things, the pessimist of the family, my mother used to call me. I'd always be the one wondering "what would happen if…" and coming up with some implausible combination of dire consequences that we might have to deal with, and none of them ever happening.

Except the one time. The consequences that set in motion the end of everything. With that one time when my pessimism, paranoia — whatever you want to call it — was proven right, everything fell into chaos. And the only person I had to blame was myself. I knew the possibilities that might stem from what I did, and still I pursued it, uncontrollable. I was drawn — or pushed? — ever onwards towards the one inevitable conclusion to everything — this. And here I am now, struggling to pick up the pieces of something which shattered into grains of sand.

I shake my head. No, says her voice in my head. You can't give up. Never give up.

She always was the positive one. Without her support, I'm not sure what I'd do. With her strength and belief in me, perhaps things can change for the better. Perhaps the scenes I'd seen in my dream — the apple tree coming to life before me — were showing that I really was starting to believe that.

Time would tell, I guessed. For now, there was only one thing to do. I had to try and reach him again. I didn't hold out hope for any more success than I'd had in the past, but I had to try.

I pushed open the familiar doors now I'd reached my destination, and walked inside.

When I regained my senses, I was crouched on the floor, curled up in a ball, my hands clasped over the back of my head. My body was panicking. My heart was racing. Breathing was difficult. But I was alive.

All was silent in the area, so I tentatively looked up and saw what I expected — most of the building in ruins. This was becoming an all too familiar sight now, but it was still faintly horrifying every time it happened. I now had no doubt in my mind: the destruction everywhere was something to do with me. I was causing it. I didn't understand this power that I had, but evidently using it I had left a trail of death and destruction across the world, with no memory of how it happened or even why.

Memories were starting to creep back, but any time I felt myself getting closer to the truth, something terrible like this happened again, and I was back to square one. Was this journey even worth it? If and when I ever found this "Evie" woman, would whatever dark force caused this chaos not just strike out and destroy her?

It didn't bear thinking about. Although I still didn't know why she was important, I felt a fondness in my heart for this woman when I thought of her. I guessed that she must have been the flame-haired woman I saw in the house, and also the little girl. And if they were both "her," then that must mean that I'd known her for a long time. Perhaps she was–

I stopped myself thinking any further, not wanting to provoke the frightening sense of rage once again by probing too deep into the memories. Scavenging for supplies in the building hadn't been too successful, so I couldn't afford to waste more time. I decided that the time had come to move on.

I glanced at the map and decided to rejoin the main road. If I was where I thought I was, I was making good progress. But what would I find when I eventually got there?

After another hour or two of walking, my mind had fell into a trance, and I found myself veering off the road into dry, featureless fields of dead grass. Before long, I'd left the road far behind and was surrounded on all sides by almost identical scenery. But still I kept walking, with a strange sense of purpose. There was something I had to do.

As I'd been half-expecting, before long I saw the familiar sight of the house. To my surprise, though, it looked alive. It was surrounded by green grass and trees, which slowly faded into the yellow of the dead wilderness around it. But there, like a beacon, it stood as a defiant symbol that not everything had perished.

I broke into a run as I approached it. It was a familiar and welcome sight. I knew that I was letting my mental defences weaken, and that this strange, euphoric feeling I was experiencing right now would doubtless cause problems — but I didn't care. Here was something I recognised, something I could latch onto, something which might have some answers.

Despite the fact it was intact and surrounded by life, the house itself was strangely quiet and empty. The door had been left ajar, so I had let myself in to take a look around — I figured the occupants probably weren't something I needed to worry about.

This was definitely familiar. As in the dream, still fresh in my mind, this house felt like a "home away from home." I had no memories of my actual home or my family, but this house had been important to me, I knew that much.

I walked through into the living room and examined the shelves thoughtfully. There were a range of unmarked, leather-bound books on them; I picked one up curiously and opened it.

It was a photograph album. The photographs looked like they'd been taken a good few years ago now, but I instantly recognised the people in them — the mother, father and little girl I'd seen in my most recent chaotic recollection.

I felt a twinge in the back of my mind, but grit my teeth and tried to remain in control. My grasp on reality held for the moment as I pored over the old photographs.

There was a young boy in many of these pictures, too. I wasn't sure who he was, but he seemed on good terms with the little girl. He didn't seem to be part of the family, though, for in many of the highly-posed family photographs scattered throughout the album, he was nowhere to be seen.

I replaced the album and picked up another from further along the shelf. I assumed that these had been filed in chronological order, so perhaps a later one would offer some more recent clues?

The first picture was instantly familiar from another repressed memory — the flame-haired woman. She looked as beautiful as I remembered, and her smile was enchanting. She looked much happier than when I had seen her in that memory, her head in her hands — crying? I couldn't be sure — the chaos that ensued the last time I had remembered this had meant I had no idea if the memory went any further.

I felt strangely calm. I'd been uneasy since I started looking at the pictures, expecting the now-familiar rumbling, pain and destruction. But it had not come.

I continued to flip through these photographs, which looked quite recent. There were a few of the flame-haired woman with a man of a similar age. They looked happy together — I felt a pang of jealousy as I guessed that they were a couple from the way they stood together and looked at one another.

I glanced around the room to give my eyes a break from looking at the photographs and my gaze happened to catch an attractive oval mirror on one wall of the room. I gave a start as I noticed my own reflection.

I looked at myself, then down to the photographs, then back to the reflection again.

I blinked.

Underneath my unkempt hair; my dirty, scarred face; my unwashed, overgrown beard — the man in the mirror was, without doubt, the man in the photographs.

I get to my feet, the apple in my hand, and look at the tree in bewilderment. What was clearly long-dead a few minutes ago is now in the prime of life, its branches filled with lush green leaves and a number of tasty-looking apples like the one that hit me on the head.

I eye the apple suspiciously. It looks like a regular old apple, even if its origin is currently unexplainable. I lift it in front of my face and examine it closely. It is flawless — no dirt, no rot, no holes, no bruises. It is quite possibly the most delicious looking apple I have ever seen, and my growling stomach refuses to allow me not to eat it.

I bite into it, my teeth breaking through the hard skin and into the soft flesh within, and the juice — just the right balance of sweet and tart — explodes into my mouth. It's as delicious as it looks, and I'm glad. This strange situation in which I find myself right now is filled with unexplained mysteries and unpredictable phenomena, but it's good to know that a delicious-looking apple is still delicious.

Or is it? Something feels wrong. My vision feels like it's fading — a creeping darkness slowly encroaching on my peripheral vision. I feel it closing in. It's oppressive, claustrophobic — and just plain scary. I don't like it, but wherever I turn, there it is, like a dark mist slowly fogging my vision until eventually it engulfs me completely.

Darkness and silence for a moment. No, not quite silence — I can hear my heartbeat. But that's all. The air is still here in the dark place, and there's no light of any kind.

A flash, and then I see "it" happening before me, projected into the blackness in front of me like an old movie. There's no trace of colour in the scene, and no sound, but I remember it all too well. It was, without a doubt, the worst day of my life, and there isn't a single day that has gone by since then that I don't regret what I did in the lead-up to it — and what I did afterwards.

It was a terrible event, for sure, and one which turned the world upside-down and inside-out. It ruined everything, destroyed everything, tore us apart — and it was my fault. I couldn't handle what I was getting into, couldn't control myself — and that brought about everything which followed. I wish it hadn't.

I miss him so much. I call out to him often, though I know he can't answer — and likely wouldn't want to. But I have to keep trying. It was my actions that caused this — the consequences of which I am now watching before me, over and over. I can't look away. My eyes are locked on the sight of the projection — or perhaps it's following my gaze around. It's impossible to tell here. All I know is that I want to escape.

In the distance, a strange soun–

My eyes snap open. I'm disoriented. It's still dark, but I can make out faint shapes now. It takes a moment for my brain to register the fact that I'm lying on my bed staring at the ceiling, and my alarm is bleeping. I'm covered in sweat and my heart is racing. That must have been some dream, but the detail of it is already fading. I remember something about… my old home? I haven't thought about that place for years. It must be the stress of everything which has been going on — life hasn't exactly been easy since "it" happened, but I cope.

I groggily sit up, thump the small, battery-powered alarm clock on top to stop its noise, and swing my legs out of the bed, then with some effort, stand up. My bare feet are silent on the floor as I walk to the bathroom. It's not a long walk, stuck in this pokey little hovel as I am, and before long I've reached my destination.

I pull the cord hanging from the ceiling and there's a click, but nothing happens. Power's out again. I mutter a curse under my breath and try to do my best in the little moonlight coming in through the tiny window.

I splash my face with some water — at least that's still working — and feel a little more alert. I give myself a cursory scrub with the tiny bit of soap I have left but don't really feel it's worth making much of an effort. Today will be a day much like any other, I'm sure — it has been ever since "it" happened. There's no sense complaining, though — I had my part to play in things coming to this point, and I've accepted my punishment. I don't know how long I'll be doomed to this existence — perhaps forever? — but I resolved once the worst had passed that I would try my best to make things right, to make up for what I'd done.

I didn't know if it would be enough. Somehow I doubted it. Some things you just can't take back, some damage you just can't undo. The world certainly wasn't built in a day, but it can certainly be destroyed in a heartbeat. Can it be fixed, though? Will things ever go back the way they were?

Images from my dream float through my mind. I recall the apple tree springing to life — one moment a bare, dead tree, the next exploding with life. Perhaps deep down I believe that all can be healed, that all can be made all right again.

Those feelings must be buried pretty deep in my subconscious, however, because all I feel right now is a lingering sense of hopelessness and guilt.

I sit back down on the side of my bed, put my head in my hands and weep. It's a familiar feeling — almost comforting. To let the emotions out, almost as if the tears running freely down my face are little fragments of pain flowing from my body — it's painful, but it's also a relief. I know this feeling will pass, but as I sob and gulp, my mind filling with familiar, dark thoughts, I surrender to it once again.

When I awoke again, my body ached all over, like I'd been running for miles and then stopped to lift some heavy weights. Of course, my long journey had been taxing my body somewhat, but I had been making a point of stopping to rest on a regular basis. This was different. I knew I'd slept deeply, but I felt almost as exhausted now that I'd woken up as when I succumbed to sleep.

I'd left the area shortly afterwards. I had no desire to be around the wreckage that had resulted from my… episode. Seeing the cracked earth and the charred surroundings only served to remind me that I had no idea how I was causing these incidents — and it must have been me, for there was no other explanation occurring to me at this time.

As I walked, my mind wandered off in a completely different direction. The monotonous scenery around me ceased to matter. The hypnotic sound of my footsteps on the broken concrete distracted me, and my attention faltered.

I tripped and fell on a loose fragment of road surface. I felt myself going — it was as if everything was suddenly depicted in slow motion. I saw the ground coming up to meet my face and braced myself for an impact, screwing my eyes up tight so as not to see the spray of blood from whichever part of my face hit the floor first.

It never came. I opened my eyes — at least, I thought I did — and found myself in total blackness. Was I dead? I didn't think so, because I was pretty sure that I wouldn't be able to have this conversation with myself if I was truly dead. But I certainly wasn't where I should be — lying face down on the road, possibly bleeding quite badly.

I reached up and touched my face with my hand. It was still there. I was still human. It was just pitch black.

I reached out with my hands to feel in all directions and work out where I was, but there were no clues. It was just an apparently huge, lightless, silent, empty space.

No, not silent, for there was some sound off in the distance. I couldn't tell what it was, but it sounded almost like… people talking? That couldn't be right, could it?

I tried to determine where the sound was coming from, and started walking towards it. My feet made no sounds on the floor — if indeed there was one — but a slight breeze as I walked convinced me that I was, in fact, moving somewhere. But where?

The voices didn't seem to get any closer. They just sounded like mumbling, like they were discussing something behind a wall. The tone of them was very low and, I assumed, serious, for there was no sound of anything like laughter. I picked out at least three different people — two male, one female, but try as I might, there was no way to make the sound any clearer. It was so frustrating — here, potentially, was the answers I'd been seeking, and I couldn't reach them.

There was a sudden flash of light and a loud sound of rushing wind, and suddenly I was back where I had been on the road. I stumbled over the crack again, but this time managed to catch myself before I fell, breaking briefly into a comical half-controlled jog.

I looked around at the dry wastes all around me, at the sun high in the sky and the road steadfastly extending off into the distance. I wasn't sure I was actually going anywhere — the scenery had been nigh-on identical for the past few hours, and it felt like I was just walking along the same stretch of road over and over again.

As the sun passed overhead and started its inexorable descent down towards the opposite horizon, I saw something ahead. Buildings. There was what looked like a bridge over the road in the distance, and an intact, blue sign before it. "Services," it said, along with a series of symbols which looked familiar but which my mind couldn't decode at this time. A narrow track led off the wide road I was following, and I assumed that this led to the "services" mentioned on the sign, though I wasn't sure what I'd find there.

What I discovered appeared to be a large car parking area, with a large number of burnt-out vehicles. The concrete floor seemed to be covered with patches of familiar-looking dust, and I tried not to think about what had happened to Annie, because I had the sneaking suspicion that these dust piles had once been people, just like her.

At the far end of the car park was a large, boxy building. Its windows were smashed, but it looked otherwise structurally reasonably sound. Its front doors had obviously once been made from glass, but now they were nothing but large frames with a few shards in the corners. I stepped through one of them, taking care not to cut myself on the sharp spikes, and entered the building.

It was dark inside, and smelled musty. I'd entered a large, open indoor plaza which had been divided into several areas — almost like smaller buildings inside the larger one. The ceiling in one corner of the plaza had collapsed, but the rest looked safe enough for now.

I walked through the open area of the plaza, which was filled with upturned tables and chairs, scattered around the area haphazardly. I headed towards one of the "building within a building" areas which looked like it might once have been some kind of shop — there were shelves, certainly, and some of them looked like they might still be stocked. With what, though, I didn't know until I got there.

Inside, it was a mess, but it did look like I might be able to scavenge some supplies at least. While a great deal of the food that had been scattered from a tipped-over cabinet looked like it was inedible and mouldy, my mind was drawn to a few gold-coloured tins which, although dented, looked like they might contain something which could survive a little longer.

I picked one up and fiddled with the plastic fastening until the lid came off. Inside were a number of brightly-colored, hard crystals with some sort of white powder over them. A pleasant smell was emanating from them, so I picked one up and eyed it curiously. The scent of fruit drifted into my nostrils, so I put the sweet into my mouth.

The strong flavour started at the tip of my tongue and worked its way all through my taste buds. My mouth filled with saliva at the sweetness of it. It tasted good. I rolled it around in my mouth for some time — its hardness suggested that attempting to bite into it might not be a great idea — and suddenly I found myself remembering something.

There was the house again. The girl — younger, this time, and with two older people — was getting into a car, and she was motioning for me to join her. I did so — I didn't have a choice in the matter — and the two older people in the front — her parents? — drove out of the driveway to the house and started down the road. The girl pulled out a small, golden tin much like the one I'd been holding in my hands a moment before and–

I felt the pain starting again. If I didn't get out of here right now, I was likely to be in big trouble.

I'd continued walking down the long, wide road. According to the map, it looked like the most direct route to get where I was going, though there weren't many places to hide if the weather were to turn unpleasant. Fortunately, in the days I'd been travelling — I'd lost count — it hadn't as yet, but it was always a possibility.

The road extended off into the distance, mostly straight, veering a little to the right as it approached the horizon. This part of the world was quite flat, and the scenery was becoming rather monotonous. I decided to take a short break and get something to eat.

I sat down and rummaged in my pack for what supplies I had left. The tinned food I had had been in perfectly edible condition so far, but I was starting to get a little low on it. I'd need to resupply soon.

I cracked open an unmarked can which turned out to be filled with baked beans. While eating them cold wasn't the most pleasant thing, I didn't have the means of easily making a fire with me — and besides, over the course of this journey, I'd become accustomed to eating food just "as is". With a smile, I wondered if I'd ever been a fussy eater in the past — if so, this situation would be working wonders for it. If the only thing you have to eat is that which is right in front of you, that's what you eat.

As I sat by the edge of the road, watching the few wisps of cloud in the otherwise blue sky passing by, my thoughts turned inward, as they often did when I stopped and contemplated. I was no closer to understanding who I was or why I was making this journey, but I still had a lingering sense that the truth was being wilfully withheld from me.

That was ridiculous, of course, since there was no-one around to "withhold" anything except me. Perhaps I was repressing a memory, and doing so had become such second nature that it was now automatic, instinctive.

I didn't want to repress it any longer, however. I wanted to know. My mind evidently had other ideas.

I sighed and finished off the last of the beans. The most basic of foods tasted great while out on the road, though I wondered if I'd ever eat a full meal again. I tossed the can aside and gazed into the middle distance. The light breeze in the air was relaxing.

I closed my eyes for a moment and attempted to clear my mind of all distractions — to sit down and have a quiet chat with myself over what it was that was really going on.

All was darkness for a short while, the only sound the wind rustling the dry grass beside the road. As I concentrated deeply, inwardly, however, it was as if a plume of smoke was slowly clearing and gradually coming into focus.

There was the house again, but this time it was different. I couldn't hear anything this time, there was no colour, and I didn't feel like I was in control like I was in the dream. I felt myself drawn towards the door of the house, saw my hand reach out and open it and enter a small but homely living room. Sitting on the floor, her elbows on a coffee table and her head in her hands, was a woman. She had long, flame-red hair — the only colour in this otherwise monochromatic image — and was beautiful. I knew her. I knew her well. I reached out and touched her on the shoulder and–

My eyes snapped open. I felt a pain in my head as if someone had jammed a poker through it. I screamed, and it felt like the earth shook. The pain didn't subside, even as my cries of anguish echoed through the empty landscape. My thoughts were confused, jumbled, mangled, as if someone had grabbed my brain and was wringing it out. I had no control over myself, save to cry out and scream.

My vision blurred and I couldn't see what was happening. I tried to get to my feet, but couldn't move. I felt the ground cracking beneath me, the earth shaking and shattering. I gritted my teeth and tried to break through the pain, but I couldn't. It was too much. It was unlike anything I'd ever experienced, and was in no hurry to ever experience again afterwards. There was such power behind the pain, such fury. But it didn't want to kill me. It wanted me to hurt.

I fell prone on the floor and passed out from the horrific sensations. I don't know how long I slept, but when I woke, it was dark. I knew before I looked up from the floor that it had happened again — destruction, devastation, chaos born from anger. But why?

It had happened as soon as the memory — for that must have been one — was making itself clear. Answers lay within that memory, but I was convinced now, more than ever, that there was something beyond my control, powerful beyond my wildest imagination, stopping me from accessing it.

But what? And how? I didn't know, but even as the throbbing in my skull slowly subsided, I resolved to get to the bottom of this — to solve the mystery of my memories and figure out just what it was that had occurred to turn this world of ours into a wasteland, devoid of human life — and what it had to do with me.

I closed my eyes again and sank into sleep. This time, dreams did not come as slumber claimed me, only much-needed peace.

The floorboards creak beneath my bare feet, just like they always used to. The third stair up had made that same loud noise that always meant it was impossible to sneak up or downstairs unless you hopped over it — my father always used to joke that the third stair up was better than any burglar alarm.

The house is both familiar and alien all at once. Everything is exactly as I remembered it from the day I left, but there's a curious emptiness, too — like I'm walking around inside a photograph. I don't dare touch anything for fear that my hands might pass straight through it and shatter the illusion. For all the unease I feel wandering around this spectre from my past, I am also enjoying being somewhere that isn't falling down.

It occurs to me that the empty sensation I am feeling is due to the complete lack of other life in the house. There are no humans — why would there be? But there is no other life either — no spiders spinning cobwebs in forgotten corners of the room (the bookcases in the lounge always seemed to attract them), no buzzing flies, no moths, nothing at all. The strange, eerie silence that had gripped the world since "it" happened is here too, and somehow it seems more noticeable here. There needs to be noise. I'd always hated silence. It felt oppressive, desperate to be filled, but my family had always been one to just sit in peace with one another, happy to be in each other's company. Except for me. Silence made me feel guilty.

I walk through the doorway into my old room and there it is — bare walls, unlike when I'd been a child, for before I left I'd cleaned it from top to bottom. It was a cathartic experience that helped me deal with the death of the two people I loved more than anyone else in the world. I knew I wasn't coming back, so I didn't see the point of leaving behind traces of my past life.

I tentatively walk over to the bed and move to sit on it. My bare behind touches the uncovered mattress and it feels how I remember it. More to the point, I don't fall through, nor does it suddenly disappear like a mirage. This bed is here.

I'm not sure what I should do. There's not much I can do in my current state, disrobed and possessionless as I am. I close my eyes for a moment and picture him again. If only he were here. If only I could see him again, then I could be happy. I wouldn't need to do anything for I could  just sink into his arms, curl up and sleep forever.

But he isn't here, and I have to deal with that. I have no-one to rely on but myself right now, and sitting around isn't going to help with survival. My first priority is to find some clothes — I'm not so concerned about my own modesty if there's no-one around to see me, but I am a little worried about getting cold. Although the house appears intact, there's no evidence that any of the electrical devices are working, meaning that there'd be no way to heat the place up if it did happen to get cold.

I glance over to my old wardrobe, built into the wall. It's a long shot, I know, but I figure I'll try it. I get up, the mattress springing back into shape now my weight has left it, and walk over to the wooden doors. My hand touches the handle and hesitates for a moment. I feel a slight dizziness and a feeling of warmth that seems to sweep through my whole body, but as suddenly as it appeared, it is gone again. Shaking my head, I open the door to see the last thing I expected: my favourite summer dress. While wearing it without underwear isn't the most decent thing in the world, I figure it's better than nothing, so I slip it over my head and pass my arms through the straps. I glance over at the full-length mirror on the wall, right where it should be, and admire myself. I give a little twirl and giggle as the dress does that "billowing" thing that makes me love it so much.

I'm hungry. Surely it's too much to hope that a similar situation will arise with the kitchen cupboards, but it's all I've got at the moment. I walk downstairs, smiling as the third stair creaks at my passing again, and head into the kitchen. It always seemed so small, but my mother could work wonders in here. I didn't know how she did it. For years I lived in a flat with a kitchen bigger than this and always found myself running out of room. Yet my mother could whip up an incredible meal with the minimum of effort.

Not today, though; as expected, the cupboards are bare. Nothing to eat here. My stomach gives a low growl in protest.

I walk out of the back door again and into the garden. I find myself wondering if I'll see young me and my mother again, but there is no sign of them. I begin to think I may have imagined them.

I wander towards the apple tree at the edge of the garden; here, the green grass is fading to the more familiar brown, and the tree itself looks long-dead. I know that there's no hope of finding anything to eat on a tree quite so comprehensively devoid of life, but something draws me here.

I feel the strange dizziness and warmth again. It lingers this time, and becomes so disorienting that I feel myself stumble and fall to the ground, but it doesn't hurt. I feel like I'm falling onto cotton wool. I close my eyes and smile — the sensation isn't unpleasant, but the sudden onset of it is confusing and a little troubling. The fleeting doubt is brushed aside from my mind as the feeling fades again, and I open my eyes. I'm not lying on cotton wool, I'm lying face-down on the green grass, just like I should be, given that I just fell over.

Something strikes me on the back of the head quite hard. It hurts and makes my ears ring, and I feel it drop to the floor to the right of me. Did someone throw something at me?

Still a little dizzy, I don't trust myself to stand up yet, so I fumble around with my hand until I feel the object that struck me. It's smooth and round. I grasp it in my hand and bring it around in front of me, raising my head to look ahead of me instead of gazing into the grassy floor.

It's an apple.

After spending some time attempting to decipher the road map and comparing it to the few battered roadsigns I could find around the way, I came to the conclusion that the address I'd found in Annie's phone was hundreds of miles away. I had a very long journey ahead of me, it seemed, but given the total lack of other people around, I didn't see anything better to do. My pack was filled with supplies, and if where I had been still held a few pockets from which usable equipment and food could be salvaged, surely other places along the way would, too.

I was out on the open road by now. The cracked concrete surface gave me something to concentrate on amid the emptiness of the parched, dead grass all around. The road I was following had obviously once been a main route, as it was wide and seemingly well signposted — though most of these signposts had been charred, bent, or in some cases apparently torn in half. With an occasional glance at the map, however, I determined that I was probably moving in the right direction. At least I hoped I was.

My mind kept wandering to the strange incident outside the petrol station. The dream hadn't returned again, but I was still chilled as I remembered waking up from the rage-filled chaos and my surroundings not being as I had left them. Part of me still wondered if I had been responsible for the destruction of that area — and if I had had anything to do with the state of the world as it was now. It didn't make any sense, though. Thinking rationally right now, I had no desire to destroy anything or hurt anyone, so logically it couldn't possibly have been me, right? This was also leaving aside the fact that I was, as far as I remembered, anyway, just an ordinary human being. Ordinary human beings might shout and scream when they get angry, not level an entire city block.

I tried to shake off the grim thoughts as I continued walking. An odd melody popped into my head out of nowhere, and I found myself humming it. After a few moments, I suddenly heard myself and began to laugh at the sheer incongruity of humming such a happy, cheerful tune in such a desolate environment. It was better than the alternative, however.

There was something else too, though — a flash of memory. I couldn't pin down what it was, but it was there, and it seemed like it wanted to emerge. But perhaps not yet. I hummed the melody again, and a smile broke across my face. Perhaps it wasn't worth getting upset. Perhaps over the next hill I'd find lush green grass and a town that didn't lie in ruins.

Hours later, the light was fading and I hadn't come across either green grass or an intact town, but my legs were aching and my feet were sore. I'd made it onto what looked like an even more major road, with two carriageways running parallel to one another, and a tendency to run in a long, straight line, even if that meant cutting right through the middle of a hill rather than going around it. There wasn't any sign of civilisation nearby, so I decided to make camp at the side of the road, up against a concrete wall built into one such hill cutting. It was still warm, even though night was falling, and I was so tired.

I fell asleep almost as soon as I sat down and leaned up against the wall. My eyelids drooped and I felt myself drifting out of consciousness.

For a moment, I was disoriented. I wasn't where I thought I was. There was sunlight and a gentle breeze, and the smell of cut grass. And sounds — people, cars, the distant clatter of the railway line. This place felt familiar.

Before me was a rustic-looking old house that looked like it had been standing for centuries. It was still in good condition, though, and didn't show any signs of the damage and destruction evident everywhere else I'd seen.

There was a curious, ethereal quality to the sunlight as I looked around, like it wasn't quite real. Then it occurred to me: I was dreaming. But I didn't want to wake up. This was a pleasant, happy place. This was a safe place. This was far from the sense of sadness, sorrow and loss I felt when I looked at the wasteland around me as I walked. This was… home? No, that didn't feel quite right, but it was still important.

I heard the sound of a girl giggling inside the house and moved to hide myself, but there was nowhere to go. She came out into the garden, for that was where I stood, but she looked right through me, her gaze lingering for a moment as if she knew something was there but she couldn't quite work out what it was… or believe in it.

"Hello," I said, but if she heard, she didn't show it, for before long she was scampering off to the other end of the garden where an older woman — presumably her mother? — was laying something down on an outdoor table. It was a picturesque scene of familial bliss… until it happened.

The sky turned red — a deep, threatening red, the colour of blood. The earth shook, and a giant crack split the garden in twain, the outdoor table and its contents falling down into darkness. The girl screamed and the mother looked around herself, panicked. There was a huge roar that seemed to make the whole world tremble.

Then I woke up, drenched in sweat. It was dark, and the wall against which I was leaning was still standing. This was not the same as last time, but something in that was important. And something was trying to keep me from working out what it was.

I float through space. At least I think it's space. It's a dark, empty void completely free of light, air and sound. I'm not sure how long I've been here or even if I'm here at all. I could be dead, for all I know. But then, surely, I wouldn't be aware of my existence, I'd just be dead.

I was brought up to be a spiritual sort of person but deep down I always figured it to be complete nonsense. There couldn't be such a thing as an afterlife. There was nothing whatsoever rational to suggest that there was some sort of alternate dimension between what we knew as "existence" and total oblivion. You were alive, or you were dead. It was as simple as that.

Except now I'm not so sure. I certainly can't feel my body or anything in the world, but I sure can feel my… what? Soul? Self?

Perhaps I'm just asleep. Dreaming. That would be a rational explanation for all this. Perhaps in all the chaos which ensued when "it" happened, I knocked my head and fell unconscious. Given what was going on, though, I'd be absolutely astonished if I turned out to be alive. I remember things collapsing, clouds of dust, screams of terror suddenly cut short in a manner that was somehow more horrific than if they'd continued.

And so much noise. That constant low rumbling as the very ground shook beneath us. The roars of rage and fury. No-one knew where the anger was coming from, but we sure as hell knew that it was going to be the end of us. The devastation had spread gradually, starting with a small village in the middle of nowhere and gradually spreading until it had engulfed everywhere we knew and once held dear. Lush green grass became brittle and brown, precisely-designed buildings came tumbling down, freshly-paved streets cracked and broke.

At the end of it all, nothing but the wasteland. Our glorious country — possibly even the world — utterly destroyed. And for what? There was still no easy answer.

Suddenly, I'm aware of a faint green light from out of the corner of my field of vision — I hesitate to say "eyes" because I'm not sure I have them. I turn to face it and it approaches rapidly — or perhaps I float towards it. Before long, I am engulfed in the light. It feels warm, and pure, and soft, and filled with love. The feelings it invokes in me are indescribably joyful.

Images flash before my eyes. Split-second views of the day "it" happened. Faces of loved ones, now probably lost. One image lingers slightly longer than the others — it's him. I miss him so much. I try to call out, but no sound comes out in the void, but I sense the light understands what I'm trying to do, so I don't feel I have to try it again.

The light brightens for a moment, dazzling me with its intensity, then fades to nothingness. I am back in the darkness. But something is different. There's… a sound. And a feeling. A cold, hard feeling. On my… face?

I open my eyes, for now I have them. In front of my face is a solid, smooth, cold surface. I raise my head a little and look up. I'm lying on a stone floor outside a small, ruined building. It looks familiar somehow, but it takes a moment for me to realise why.

Of course. It's the house where we used to play together as children, and onward grew up until young adults. The house where we confessed our true feelings to one another, shared our first kiss, and were first intimate with one another. The house in which I lived until my parents died, and I was forced to go out into the world and make it on my own.

It has been many years since I have seen this house, and something had not been kind to it. I don't know if it was age or the destruction wrought by "it", but to see my memories laid out before me, a crumbling ruin, is profoundly moving.

I push off the ground with my hands and get unsteadily to my feet. I feel the gentle breeze of the day over my whole body, and I suddenly realise I am nude. Instinctively covering myself as best as I can with my arms and hands, I frantically look around for something to wear and anyone who might be looking, but find neither. All is eerily quiet. The horrific sounds of the devastation had ceased. Was it over?

I look back at the house and frown. If I look at it at the right angle, it almost looked like…

There's a giggling sound. My eyes widen as a girl skips out into the garden. She seems oblivious to my presence. It doesn't take me long to recognise her.

It's me. Me aged about seven years old, to be precise. I was so carefree back then and never had any idea of the awful future in store for me.

From around the corner comes my mother. She gestures to seven year old me and says something to her that I can't quite hear. The two of them go inside the house.

I gasp. Before my eyes, the house is whole again. Tentatively walking towards it, I reach out and touch the aged stones of the wall, and they're real. I walk around to the back of the house, where young me and my mother disappeared, and sure enough, there is the door.

I put my hand on the handle and hesitate for a moment. While for a few moments, the atmosphere had been filled with life thanks to the incessant giggling of young me, now there's a chilling sense of emptiness. I know that my young self and my mother couldn't possibly be here, that it must have been some sort of hallucination, but it still saddens me a little — and that doesn't explain the house, which had been an uninhabitable ruin just minutes before.

I push down on the handle. The door is unlocked, and creaks in that old, familiar way as I open it and step into my childhood home for the first time in over twenty years.